Quantum radio, p.10
Quantum Radio, page 10
His watch vibrated on his wrist. Time was up.
Sunlight glimmered a few feet above.
He climbed faster then, like a drowning man swimming for the surface.
At the top of the escape tunnel, he dug his fingers into the ground and pulled his body out of the hole. He drew his phone out and connected to the camera inside the larger building below.
The windows of the structure were boarded up. The door was closed. Two dozen desks were spaced evenly across the room. Bodies sat in chairs at each one. But they weren’t actual people. They were children’s clothes stuffed full of straw. Like the trench from the shack to the mine, they wouldn’t hold up to close inspection, but they didn’t need to. They just needed to fool the attackers long enough to buy him a little time.
At the front of the room, a mannequin stood with its arm extended, posing as the teacher. He had bought the model for pennies in an open-air market.
The camera had no audio capability, so it didn’t transmit the recording that was playing in the room, but Kato heard it in the distance, through the trees, the faint sound of children’s voices mixed with the stern commands of the teacher. He had captured the recording while visiting his client.
He took the detonator from his pocket and activated it. On the screen, the door to the fake one-room school flew open and half a dozen men rushed in, waving their rifles left and right, high-capacity magazines hanging down.
Their shouts were loud enough for Kato to hear from where he lay. He watched as a few more of the men entered the room. By then, the first arrivals were starting to realize the ruse. Their guns fell to their sides. One man pushed the mannequin over.
Kato depressed the detonator, ending their lives in three booming explosions.
He rose from the ground, shouldered his rifle, and crept forward toward the rising cloud of smoke billowing up below, spreading from the wreckage of the two buildings out into the serene rainforest.
From his high perch above, he crouched and watched, firing at any movement in the cloud. He emptied two magazines and loaded another before the smoke had cleared enough for him to see the bodies scattered across the field.
He descended the hill and stalked through the wooden wreckage of the buildings, delivering coups de grâce as he went, the shots a sickening symphony of his march to the last survivor, who had been the farthest away when the explosives detonated. The man had likely waited at the edge of the tree line, watching his troops do the dirty work. The dangerous work. He was corpulent and wore a bloody athletic jumpsuit. A thick gold chain hung from his neck. Large sunglasses covered half his face. Shrapnel from the buildings had shredded his legs.
As Kato approached, the man threw up a hand and pleaded in a language he didn’t recognize, but the message was clear: don’t kill me.
Kato believed that every person deserved a chance to explain their actions, to be heard before they were judged. But life had taught him that there was the justice that one deserved and the justice that could be had. Here and now, this jungle justice was the only thing within reach.
Kato took a step closer, held the rifle to his shoulder, and gave the man what he deserved.
*
It was night when Kato arrived at the village.
At his client’s home, he approached quietly and peered in through the screen door. The schoolteacher sat rocking in a recliner, fanning herself with one hand, holding a smartphone with the other.
Kato knocked, and she jumped at the sound, then stared out at him as though she had seen a ghost.
“Thought you had gone and left,” she said, rising and lumbering to the screen door.
“Took longer than I thought.”
She swung the door open and stepped onto the porch. “You talked to ’em?”
“They won’t bother you again.”
The teacher studied his face. “Just like that, huh?”
“I guarantee the results.”
She snorted and smiled. “Well, all right then. Gimme a second.”
She let the rickety door slam shut and retreated into the small house. A few seconds later, she returned with an envelope full of money. “Here you go.” She seemed to remember something then. “Hey, there was some guys come around asking about you. Where you was. How long you been here.”
“When?”
“’Bout an hour ago.”
“Who were they? Traffickers? Gang associates—”
“Nah, not them kind of guys. They was like you.”
“Like me?”
“Yeah. Americans. They wasn’t in uniform, they wore shorts and T-shirts, but it was obvious. They had the haircut—and the voice. ‘Ma’am this’ and ‘ma’am that’ and if I see you I need to call ’em and they would pay me and all.” She reached in her pocket and took out a slip of paper with a number scrawled on it.
“Did you…”
“I told ’em I hadn’t never even heard of you.”
Kato smiled. “Thanks.”
Behind him, the sound of SUVs roared in the night, a convoy driving along the dirt road of the village at high speed, headed his way. There was no doubt in his mind about why they were here.
“Stay inside,” he said quietly. “And away from the windows.”
She closed the door, and Kato walked into the street.
The lead SUV bore down on him, the second vehicle close behind, a column of dust rising in the moonlight. A hundred feet away, the SUVs skidded to a halt, one forking left, one right.
Kato drew his handgun from its holster but kept it behind his back. With his eyes still on the vehicles, he began stepping sideways, away from the schoolteacher’s house, toward the row of dilapidated buildings that could provide some cover in the gunfight he was mentally preparing for.
The cloud of dust the convoy had created drifted forward, carried by the breeze, like a tumbleweed drifting through.
Kato could hear car doors opening and closing. Boots crunched the loose dirt in the road.
Along the street, curtains were drawn closed. Lights winked out.
“Lieutenant Tanaka!” a man’s voice with a southern accent called from the cloud.
“You just missed him.”
That drew a few chuckles as four men emerged from the cloud. They looked like the people the headmistress had described: buzz cuts, civilian clothes, and hard eyes.
The man who spoke looked like an NFL linebacker. “Stand down, Lieutenant, we’re friendlies. I’m Commander Nathan Ross.”
“What do you want?”
“We were sent to pick you up.”
“The judge said I could remain free until my trial.”
“What trial?”
“Court-martial.”
“I don’t know anything about that. These orders got sent down from way on high. Direct from the Pentagon.”
“You’re going to have to give me more than that.”
The large man exhaled and put his hands on his hips. “Listen, all I know is that the Pentagon wants you there yesterday. And I’m gonna deliver you.” He nodded. “Now, we’ve got a helo on standby a click away, and I don’t think we ought to be dilly-dallying out here any longer than we have to. I mean, I don’t know about you, Lieutenant, but I’m scared of the dark—real, real scared of the dark—and beyond that, frankly, I’m just a little bit worn out from looking all over half of Nigeria trying to find you, so why don’t you, pretty please, get in the vehicle and we’ll get you a secure sat phone and you can call whoever you want and we’ll sort all this out. Okay?”
22
At the DARPA facility near the banks of the Anacostia River in Washington, DC, Ty peered out the office’s wide window at the open-concept team room, watching Bishop arguing with two of his colleagues, who were dressed in plain clothes.
“Something’s wrong,” he said, drawing the attention of Richter and his mother, who came to stand beside him at the window.
As if sensing their eyes on him, Bishop turned, stared at them for a long second, then stalked toward his office.
He pushed the door open and exhaled, clearly annoyed. “Okay, settle a debate. We’re ordering lunch.” He held up two fingers. “I’m going to give you two choices to make it simple because I’m sick of arguing about it. Chipotle or Panera?”
“I’m fine with either,” Helen said.
“Same,” Ty muttered, a little surprised that this was the subject of the strenuous debate.
“Richter?” Bishop asked, hand held out, palm up.
“I too am neutral on this decision.”
“So if we get Panera,” Bishop said, “everybody is going to be happy?”
“What is Panera?” Richter asked. “Is it like pizza?”
“Panera Bread. You don’t have Panera in Zürich?”
“You only eat bread for lunch?”
Bishop closed his eyes. “No, Gerhard, it’s like a café. They’ve got everything: soups, salads, paninis, cold sandwiches, bakery stuff—and that’s the problem. Bill says it’s like hospital food. They have everything, but nothing is really that good, especially if you’ve had it a bunch—and we have lately. He keeps saying, ‘Panera is overpriced hospital food, change my mind.’”
“Well,” Helen said slowly, “as someone whose office is on the campus of Georgetown University at the med school and who routinely eats at the university hospital cafeteria next door, I can assure you I am quite comfortable with hospital food.”
Bishop let his head fall back. “So you are saying it’s like hospital food?”
“I didn’t say that—”
“What I’m not hearing is Chipotle,” Bishop snapped. “That’s clearly out.”
“I can do Chipotle,” Ty said.
“Me too,” Helen said.
“No, no,” Bishop muttered. “I get it. Fine—we’re doing Jersey Mike’s. We haven’t had it since last Tuesday, so it’s time.”
With that, Bishop left the three of them in silence.
Richter’s back was turned. He was still staring through the large window when he spoke. “He’s cracking.”
“He’s fine,” Helen responded.
“What he is,” Richter said slowly, “is ill-suited to the intensity of this new phase of our endeavor.”
Helen shook her head. “Well, few mortals possess your fortitude, Gerhard. We’ll simply have to make do.”
“We must consider the prospect that he may be incapable of seeing this through.”
“He’s just stressed,” Helen said. “During times of duress, we take comfort in routines, and it can be even more jarring if those routines are disrupted. His blood sugar might also be low, which triggers the release of hormones like cortisol and adrenaline, causing even more stress and activating the body’s fight-or-flight response. It can impact decision-making.”
Ty massaged his forehead. He was seeing a whole new side of his parents, one that was equally illuminating and trying. “Mom, he’s just hangry.”
“Yes, he’s hangry.”
*
When Bishop returned after lunch, he was indeed in better spirits.
“You all want to stretch your legs?” he asked before leading them out of the office and to the elevator.
At basement level four, they exited into a small foyer with white walls, a gray linoleum-tiled floor, and a white drop ceiling. A single door loomed ahead with a biometric hand reader beside it.
Bishop planted his hand there, and the door clicked open, revealing a corridor wider than Ty had expected based on the small foyer. The passage was empty except for three metal rolling carts scattered along it. Each was littered with opened packages with what looked like small mechanical parts and electronic components. A set of closed double doors sealed the opposite end.
Bishop led them down the corridor to a wide window that looked into a clean room where three people were working in space suits hooked up to spiraling hoses that hung from the ceiling. They were crouched over a metal table, examining something through a microscope. With their hands, they were operating a surgical arm that reached down, moving very slightly and flashing a light every few seconds.
Along the far wall, a 3D printer was building something Ty couldn’t see.
To him, the scene looked like a surgical operating room, with the three “doctors” diligently performing surgery on a small object.
“They’ve decided to build the device?” Richter said.
“Yes,” Bishop replied.
“What convinced them?” Ty asked.
Bishop shrugged. “Same reason we built the atom bomb and got to the moon first. They’re scared someone will beat us to it—and what it could mean. Right now, the Covenant might be constructing its own device. The premise we’re operating under is that whoever finishes first will likely control the future.”
On that point, Ty agreed.
Bishop turned his back to the window and focused on Ty. “I’ve asked again if we can show you the schematics for the device.”
“Asked who?”
“The White House. They’re managing the entire operation directly. It’s that important.”
“So I assume you’re telling me this because the answer was no.”
“I’m sorry, Ty. It’s not my call.”
“They wouldn’t be building that device without my work.”
“I know.”
“They don’t trust me.”
Bishop grimaced. “I can’t say—”
“Is it because of Penny? Because I dated a Covenant agent? They think I might be one too.”
“Look, Ty, it is what it is.”
Richter spoke then, his gaze still on the three suited figures working in the clean room. “Why are you telling him this now?”
Ty felt it was a good question—one that cut right to the heart of the issue.
“Because,” Bishop said, exhaling, “they want me to ask you about the device. Specifically, if there’s a… code that might activate it.”
Ty turned that question over in his mind, trying to put his anger aside. He had to admit, the question surprised him. He had assumed the device would be one that they simply turned on. “Why would they ask that? Is there an interface of some kind on the device?”
Bishop’s gaze drifted up to the ceiling.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
Bishop let his focus drift back to Ty.
“So there is an interface. What type? You’re asking me for a code to operate it, but you’re not even supplying the syntax the code might be in. Or the length. You guys want me in the dark, but you also want me to solve problems I don’t understand. It’s not fair.”
“No,” Bishop said, “it’s not. That’s DC. And, frankly, that’s what working on classified projects is like sometimes.”
“What is this interface? You’ve got to give me something. Does it select which particles are accelerated?”
“We think it’s simply a way to tune the quantum radio.”
“Tune,” Ty said, thinking. “As in modulating the horizontal and vertical betatron tunes? You can do that by varying the strength of the quadrupole magnets—”
Bishop held up a hand. “No—it’s nothing like that. We’re looking for a sequence. An ordered arrangement of a set of symbols.”
“How many?”
“We don’t know.”
“How big is the character set?”
Bishop chewed his lip. “Twelve.”
“How do you know it’s a code?”
“It follows based on the layout of the interface.”
“You’ve got to let me see it.”
“I can’t.”
“Then I can’t help you.”
“Just… try to think of a code that might activate it. If the Covenant is building their own quantum radio—if we are indeed in a race here—we need to be prepared to activate our device first.”
23
By mid-afternoon, fatigue was overtaking Ty. It brought brain fog with it, like a cloud rolling in late in the day, dumping heavy rain, a force of nature bearing down on him that he couldn’t stop. It was enough to make him want to lie down and sleep for hours.
He was sitting in a chair in Bishop’s office contemplating doing just that when Richter walked in and marched over to him.
“Your brother will be here shortly.”
Ty nodded.
“You feel unwell,” Richter said.
“I’m fine.”
“You take medications for your condition.”
Ty looked up at him, shocked, but said nothing.
Richter continued, his face showing no emotion. “It’s a cocktail you’ve refined over the years, a combination of prescription medications offered via online services and nonprescription supplements.”
“How do you know that?” Ty whispered.
“I’ve kept tabs on you.”
“How?”
“I paid a firm to do it.”
“Why?”
“You know why.”
Ty rubbed his eyebrows, feeling the headache starting. Richter remained an enigma to him, one that only grew the more they talked.
“My medicines and supplements were in my apartment. They were destroyed in the blast. I need to get refills.”
“No, you don’t.” Richter reached into his coat pocket and drew out the white pill bottle Ty had seen Richter’s assistant hand him on the tarmac at the private airport outside Zürich. He held it out to Ty, who eyed it. There was no label. Ty took the bottle, opened it, and studied the capsules inside, which were filled with gray-white powder.
“What is this?”
“What you require.”
“I need you to be more cryptic right now.”
“I shall comply when you increase your sarcasm.”
“I’m serious. This is my health. I can’t just take some random pills.”
“They are hardly random.”
“Then what are they?”
“The product of research I’ve funded for a long time.”
“Research into what?”
“Your condition. What you hold should resolve your symptoms.” Richter turned to leave. “I’ll get you some water.”
